The Age of Thought
by cielnotphantomhive
Summary: Time is convoluted once more in the world of Lordran and in this alternative timeline, Gwyndolin manages to escape from Anor Londo with Yorshka, allowing the Unkindled One to dispose of Pontiff Sulyvahn and Aldrich with ease. The two children of Gwyn stumble upon the abandoned palace of the Twin Princes of Lothric and they learn to co-exist and survive in this dark, dark world.
1. Prologue - Abandoning Anor Londo

"Yorshka, doth thee needeth rest? We hath journeyed far." Gwyndolin asked breathlessly, exhaustion lacing his already weak voice. He was sick beyond belief and this escape didn't help him to make it better. He can only thank the Unkindled One, his last Darkmoon Blade, for letting him know of Sulyvahn's plans to feed him to the abysmal sludge, Aldrich.

He was able to get Yorshka and himself out of harm's way before the tyrants had even prepared to march to the twilight city. They could have the city. There was nothing to gain from it when there were no illusions to conceal its fading glory.

The illusions had become harder and harder to keep up. They were the reason why he had even fallen ill. He wasn't his father nor his mother; he couldn't exert himself like they could, but that didn't mean he didn't try to. Hadn't he already disappointed his Father Gwyn enough?

"No, dear brother. I do not need a rest. But you..." Yorshka placed her frail hand on Gwyndolin's helm, her big, doe eyes full of worry. She was tired too; the moon child could see that clearly. Yorshka was the same as him in terms of physical capabilities, albeit she possessed the power to destroy beings like him, making her far more dangerous than he could ever be, admittedly.

"I am fine. Mine energy is just..." He trailed off, holding his chest and having a brief coughing fit. He checked his hand after finally being able to catch his breath. Luckily, there wasn't a lot of blood this time. He didn't allow Yorshka to see it, casting a petty illusion in mere seconds to cover the small red splatters on the white silk.

He didn't need to, for there were many other blood splatters on the both of them, from running and falling in dangerous plains or from fighting the monsters and restless souls that lied beyond the formerly comfortable and peaceful borders of Anor Londo, yet he felt the need to protect her innocence and shower her in blissful ignorance, even if it meant tricking her with his illusions. She couldn't know this world as it was now. She couldn't know what he's known, seen what he's seen. Illusions were second nature and a habit at this point.

"Mine energy is just...I needeth time to recover."

"Then we could rest here, brother...I see a cave nearby and-"

" _No_. We are not out of the web yet. Rest comes when our safety is more than assured. Come, we've wasted enough time slacking in pace." Gwyndolin straightened his form and found new resolve. His sickness would not be his downfall.

He gestured for her to climb upon his back. She did so without question, burying her face in his neck. Ignoring the pain in every fiber of his body, he readied an arrow in his trusted bow, resuming their trek to safety from Sulyvahn's clutches.

He would protect Yorshka, even sacrifice his own life to extend hers. He promised her and her father, his exiled brother, that much.


	2. Chapter 1 - Scaling the Wall

The two had approached the High Wall of Lothric, merely by chance.

Gwyndolin had never been outside of Anor Londo, merely following his intuition on where he could go. It was night time now and the moon was full, illuminating their path to safety.

He had shot down the last of the Knights stand in his way, nearly falling to his knees after he fired the final arrow. Even the illusion of snakes for legs had faded, he was so weak. At least Yorshka knew of that particular deception.

His real legs, pale and thin with moderate disuse, burned with his exhaustion. It was sheer willpower that kept him standing. He could feel it. Asylum was so close now.

He allowed himself this one moment of recovery, closing his eyes behind his helm and trying to steady his breathing.

' _How much more can I take...?'_

That was the only thought running through his mind. He refused to think of the possibility of giving in to his body's weakness.

If he thought of it, he would ponder, and pondering would lead to doubt. Any blow to his current resilience would put Yorshka in danger.

She didn't know how to protect herself as he never thought it to be needed that she did. That, was his own fault, but what's done is done. She was magnificent as emotional support for the both of them anyway.

Speaking of her emotional support, he felt her soft, nimble fingers wrap around his hand, squeezing it firmly. She was trying to ground him. How perceptive she was. He taught her to read others very well.

He finally opened his eyes, squeezing back for her own reassurance.

"Solace is near, Yorshka. Art thee prepared to truly rest?" Gwyndolin asked in a gentle voice, smiling weakly. Even that was an arduous task. He'd give the effort for Yorshka's sake though.

"I am. I want you to rest as well. You've done so much for us...you deserve it. I hope that I'll be able to protect you like you've protected me one day. I want to be as strong as you." Yorshka spoke with delicate conviction, nodding to her own declaration.

Gwyndolin had never been prouder of anyone, not even his father.

Getting inside of the castle was surprisingly easy. Gwyndolin was sure the Pilgrim Butterflies would have come down to attack them, but they didn't. He couldn't complain. He took advantage of the peace, walking as fast as he physically could inside the slightly decrepit palace.

The inside was dark. It was evidently luxurious, seeing the tattered velvet tapestries and disassembled knights' armor against the dirtied marble pillars lining the corridors they travelled down.

It was a while before they approached large doors. They were clearly made of the strongest of stones, ornate designs carved into the material. It would provide good protection for them.

But how would they get inside?

Gwyndolin was a god but he was rather small considering who his father was and physical strength was nowhere near his forte.

He sighed deeply, putting up his scepter and reciting a miracle, robotic in the way he did so. He only needed it open for a little bit and only enough for them to fit through. Investing too much emotion and energy into it would be a waste.

The doors rumbled open after the miracle was casted, Gwyndolin scurrying through when the opportunity presented itself.

The doors had closed just as quickly as they opened. They'd be in here for a while, until his power came back.

A hooded figure had raised its head in attention, crawling to the edge of its platform like a predator.

"Yet another seeking to throw us to the Flame?" The figure spoke with very obvious disdain, exasperation so obvious that Gwyndolin's empathetic soul had felt a little irritated himself.

"I have no intentions of giving anyone to the Flame." Gwyndolin defended easily. Abandoning Anor Londo had resulted in a halt in his plans, his reason for existing. He had momentarily forgotten, becoming completely focused on relocating Yorshka and himself. Though the unknown person's accusation raised questions. He'd save that information for later.

Yorshka had lowered herself from her place on Gwyndolin's back, standing behind him at only half of his height, peeking from behind his arm at the figure above them. Were they invaded too?

The figure laughed bitterly, turning his attention to the large, armored man crawling out of a dark blind spot. His sword was flaming and black like the soul of a demon, sizzling and crackling. The sound was so loud in the otherwise quiet hall.

Gwyndolin had backed away instinctively as the (he assumed) knight, crawled to the center of the room, seemingly protecting the platform from the bottom. Yorshka had squeaked in fear, taken by the fiery sword he brandished.

"Regardless of your intentions, you are not welcome here. You can either leave here or we _will_ remove you forcefully. The girl may be spared." The figure said with finality.

Gwyndolin tightened his grip on his wand, gritting his teeth. He'd have to fight harder than he has been. He didn't want to. He couldn't possibly survive this battle, by the knight's hand or his own body simply stopping.

He thought of Yorshka, who was looking at him for guidance on what to do. He would cut down anyone who put her life in danger, even someone five times his size. His body was her shield and sword. He turned to Yorshka and whispered to her.

"I will distract him. Go to where he emerged and be silent. Doth thee remember mine spell?" Gwyndolin muttered, so soft that Yorshka strained to hear. But she understood, tugging on his robe as a silent indication. Gwyndolin had taught her to teleport as he did, primarily to get to the libraries and to him easier. The god didn't think it would come in handy at a time like this.

He barely nodded and readied his wand once more before turning around. He raised his head, looking straight ahead at the knight, who carried the hooded figure on his back. Yorshka took this as her cue to get out of the way, reciting the spell her elder brother had taught her. The knight had teleported and so had Gwyndolin, shortly after. Yorshka was surrounded by still darkness at the side of the platform in the nick of time.

She stayed against the wall, looking out into the hall to see her brother holding his own against the ruthless barrage of slashes coming for him, using nothing but his magic. His bow would do no good for him here.

She could only pray that he would win this battle, so that is what she did.

 _'Big brother, you are so strong and honorable...I hope that every power in the world finds you, and lends you their strength now.'_


	3. Chapter 2 - Isolation

The knight was absolutely ruthless in the way he attacked at Gwyndolin. The moon god could barely keep up with him. If only he wasn't sick...

With the hooded one on his back, it made it difficult to really get the chance to breathe and regroup. The pillars had been destroyed mere seconds after Gwyndolin tried to hide behind them, rendering him defenseless in every sense of the world.

He had done one last teleportation to the bottom of the platform, too weak to cast another spell. He could taste the blood pooling in his mouth, spitting some of it out onto the ground and bracing himself against the wall behind him. Losing his grip around his scepter, he sank to the floor. Luckily, he hadn't gotten wounded. At least he had evasion in his favor. But he hadn't gotten a shot off either. Everytime he got a spell off, the hooded figure would come back with something stronger. It was useless battle for both sides, but Gwyndolin felt it was more against him. He should have left when he had the chance.

He was going to die here and so would Yorshka.

He felt a world of pain and guilt fall upon his shoulders. He truly was nothing more than a disappointment. A god defeated by his own sickness and forced to submit to two undead. Talk about falling from grace.

Despite his self-deprecating thoughts, he refused to let himself cry. He couldn't show his emotional weakness to Yorshka too. He knew she was watching. He could only hope she didn't attempt to protect him now. His eyes burned with tears, but he sniffled, letting out a shallow shaky breath. He would have reached for his trusted bow, if he could feel his hands.

The moon god watched how the knight slowly crawled across the room to him, like a predator that had finally cornered its prey. And the prey he surely was. Pathetic.

The knight had finally stopped in front of him, his form large and domineering over Gwyndolin's tinier, frailer one. How could Gwyndolin have believed he could win when the victor was so obvious?

Gwyndolin laid his head back and waited. He was ready for this to end. He apologized to Yorshka and his brother countless times in his mind. For his shortcomings and inability to protect. Being unable to keep his promise.

' _Gwyneth, did I not inform thee that I was unfit for this task? Thou hath put unnecessary trust in me. And now...'_

The black, fiery sword had raised up in the air, the sound of magic forming an odd mix of cacophony and euphony in the god's ears. The bitterness of defeat, the promise of releasing him from his suffering.

' _And now...this is where I shalt perish.'_

He closed his eyes, his mind immediately drifting to Yorshka, her brilliant face in the dark. She was hidden, but they both knew she couldn't hide forever.

It was at that point that he felt small, warm arms around him. He couldn't fight it, only let the tears he had tried to hold in out. His helm hid them.

"Yorshka..no...I told thee..." He croaked out, reaching with a trembling hand to place it upon her back.

"If you go, I'll go too! I don't want to be without you, brother!" Yorshka interrupted him with a cry of her own, hugging him tighter. He stifled a grunt of pain. Even being touched was painful now.

Gwyndolin was at a loss for words. At the sudden declaration by Yorshka and the lowering of the sword that had just seconds ago, promised to end his life.

The knight had thrust the sword into the ground, leaning against it and lowering his body, the hooded figure crawling off and slowly making its way to Gwyndolin and Yorshka. Gwyndolin had instinctively held her protectively, the best he could at least. This did not go unnoticed.

"Even at the brink of death, you do not plead to be spared. Only putting up a fight to protect your sister..." The figure began, closing in on Gwyndolin and Yorshka, who had moved away out of fear. She was small and docile, even the weakest of undead could frighten her if they looked intimidating. She did keep her hold on Gwyndolin's hand though. She may have been afraid, but she would not leave his side.

"I have no other reason to fight. If thou art to end me here, I only beg of thee...let her live. She would not hurt even the most wicked of demons." Gwyndolin was capable of only whispers now, barely turning his head to face the hooded sorcerer.

The figure seemed to examine him for a moment before using deformed, reminiscent of dragon's claws, hands to pull the hood off. His face was gaunt and sunken, black irises and even darker sockets. His veins were visible, black and blue. His skin was pale and waxy. He was nearly as dead as he was. His lips were black too. He looked majorly sickly. Was he born like this? In some odd way, he resembled him.

"Is that your dying wish?" The boy asked, staring into his soul almost.

"It is.."

"Perhaps you should save it for your death then. This is not to be your grave just yet."

Gwyndolin furrowed his brows beneath his helm, jolting a little when he felt it being removed. Golden, exhausted eyes were revealed, squinting and closing. He hadn't seen this much light in ages. The helm was shaded, so he saw everything through nearly dark blue light. His hair fell out of it as well, lilac strands cascading around his shoulders, almost touching his chest.

"Why...please don't..."

"What is your name?"

Gwyndolin wasn't sure if he should respond. He felt like he was being majorly violated. He looked disgusting and repulsive. He ended up doing it anyway. He didn't have anything to lose in doing so.

"Gwyndolin...son of-"

"Gwyn. God of Sunlight. You don't look like a son of Gwyn."

"As I have...been told. I was raised as a woman."

"Ah. Interesting. Hold still."

The sickly boy put his hand against Gwyndolin's forehead, reciting a healing miracle under his breath.

Gwyndolin could feel life being returned to him, pain alleviated and energy restored. He felt alive again. Even the sickness was dissipating. The miracle had worked wonders and he could move again.

"I thanketh thee from the deepest depths of mine soul. Thy name is...?"

"Lothric. He is my older twin brother, Lorian."

Lothric gestured to the knight who was completely taken by the scene, like Yorshka who was so amazed that Gwyndolin could almost hear her take a breath to ask how he did it.

"Ah...this is Yorshka. Why art thou in such a place like this?" Gwyndolin asked, eyes averted to the ground and eyeing his helm, still being held by Lothric.

"I'll share our story if you share yours." Lothric was being playful. If Gwyndolin wasn't gifted with words and communication, he wouldn't have noticed with the endlessly monotonous tone he used.

He supposes that such a statement is fair. He is, technically, a guest in their...home?


	4. Chapter 3 - House-Warming Party?

Lothric stared at the moon child for a while, motionless the entire time.

Gwyndolin was uncomfortable under his gaze, his helm still in those dragonic hands and thus, his eyes bared and himself vulnerable. He hated when anyone who wasn't Yorshka - and at one time, Gwyneth - saw him without his mask, his only shield. He was as repulsive as they came. Both Yorshka and Gwyneth told him the opposite, that he was a handsome, young man, but Gwyndolin had never been the type to appreciate what he perceived as lies. How ironic.

"How long are you going to stare at the ground, Gwyndolin? Surely the dust can't be that amazing."

"Once thou hath returned mine helm, I would return to speech."

"Excluding the speech of now?"

Gwyndolin chanced a moment of eye contact, mostly to express his slight annoyance. Lothric had a smart mouth on him. The sickly boy even had the nerve to smirk.

"A moment of jest, Gwyndolin. Do you not enjoy that?" Lothric started poking around with the pointy helm in his hands, scratching his nails against the aging gold and seemingly entertained by the way some of the finish had chipped off at his fiddling.

Gwyndolin watched the barely shining specks fall to the ground, standing out against all of the dull marble floors and all of the gray to black dust and grime. He briefly wondered if this was his true punishment. To have this..child..continuously irritate him with the smallest of transgressions. If he inherited anything from his father, it was his short temper.

"I do not appreciate thy vandalism of mine helm." He said simply, reaching out his gloved hand, intending to grasp one of the "sunrays" of the helm to put it back on his head. Lothric only held it tighter in his hands and curled up a bit. Gwyndolin really didn't want to fight him over this, so he let out a sigh of surrender and closed his eyes. May his Lord give him the strength to deal with him. At least Lorian wasn't as childish.

When he opened his eyes, Lorian was attempting to fit the helm over Lothric's hooded head.

Gwyndolin threw away such thoughts as quickly as they formed.

After several, very long minutes of repeatedly asking for his helm and for the boys to stop tinkering with it, he finally got it back, wasting no time in putting it back over his head and sighing happily when he felt normal again.

"You're really quite strict, Gwyndolin. I expected...less from you." Lothric commented, breaking the silence. He was now sitting against Lorian, who had shifted his position to resting on his knees. His head was slightly dropped. He was staring at Lothric with the ghost of a smile on his face. Lothric must be used to this habit; he wasn't really paying it much mind. He looked quite at ease actually, fingers tapping quietly against the blackened plates of his elder brother's armor.

Yorshka had snuggled up to Gwyndolin's side, using his sheer cloak as a makeshift blanket so she could be warm as she napped. Gwyndolin was content with holding her beneath his arm, raising an eyebrow underneath his helm at this sudden, though not new, observation. He didn't think he was strict. Serious and diligent, but not strict. He knew when to have fun, especially where Yorshka was concerned. Reading and teaching her about the history of the Lordran was very fun for the both of them.

But, as a child, even his father regarded him, when he remembered to, as a "very uptight little thing". Perhaps he was strict, if Gwyn of all people had called him out on such.

Velka was a good mother then. If there was thing that he truly lived by, it was his mother's constant reminders to mind himself and his behavior closely. Unjust behavior was sinful behavior and sinful behavior had to be punished.

"And why doth thee expect little? Am I not a god to you?" Gwyndolin inquired, clearly showing a little bit of a damaged pride to the younger prince.

Lothric scoffed at the mention of "god", only slowly laying his head back. "Please save the religious rubbish for someone else. I expect less of "gods" than I did of you. At least you faced danger yourself and still defend yourself with your own body rather than dump mindless fools in your place to do the work you're too much of a coward to do. "Gods" are as useless as the Flame they attempt to save every millionth eon." Lothric's voice was undoubtedly bitter and hateful, his thin voice strained with the raising if it he did in his brief fit of anger. Gwyndolin saw Lorian nodding in agreement.

Gwyndolin couldn't help but feel extremely...attacked. To reduce him and his family to mere rubbish and to regard their life's dedication to a useless, futile fit of desperation...he had trouble holding his tongue. The boy was a heretic, and his brother was as well. If they were to still be in Anor Londo...such words would mean only certain death. The only thing holding the moon child back from punishing them for such a felony was Yorshka, and his gratitude for their mercy towards Yorshka and him.

He pondered over his response carefully, his voice quiet yet laced with the slightest bit of venom, like the snakes that had returned to surrounding his real legs.

"Thou speaks from experience?"

"Of the worse sort. Our father was the biggest fool of them all. After all, he forced me to crawl the path of a Lord of Cinder."

Gwyndolin really held his tongue then. It was one thing to sacrifice oneself to the Flame. It was a great honor and worthy of praise if successful. It was the greatest act of selflessness. But to be forced? Was that really correct? Was the meaning not lost in that?


	5. Chapter 4 - Embers Can Die Out

The meaning of the Flame was life. Gwyndolin worked hard to keep the Flame alive and kindled, so that life would flourish.

So that his father's legacy would flourish.

So that he could earn the respect and love he yearned for.

He always thought that maybe, though his better judgement knew well, Gwyn would come back, see the hard work of his black sheep of a son and maybe...just maybe... acknowledge him. It was him he was feeling the utmost pride for.

He was a little selfish. He saw his chance. As much as he adored his siblings, with them gone from Anor Londo, he had no competition. No one to eclipse his achievements by simply existing. Even if his family would never see his work and appreciate it in full, the remaining subjects would and they would worship him as well.

No Gwynevere and her political brilliance, her unmatched, ethereal beauty. No Gwyneth and his spoils of war, strength even more daunting than his father's. The only sun that could ever shine and never be outshined was his own. Anyone who would try to take away his status would be punished severely.

Despite their polarity, he and his father were more alike out of any of the children. The capacity to lead entire kingdoms and the capacity to walk the path of a tyrant. He didn't have beauty or brute strength, but he had a mind of a genius. He was born a mastermind. Knowledge gave anyone more power thought possible and knowledge made anyone dangerous.

In Gwyndolin's case, he liked to think that he rose above his sister and his brother and with his little glimmering sun, blinded everyone with his overwhelming brilliance. All those hours spent studying every philosophy and history text concerning the Flame, of memorizing massive tomes of Soul sorceries, of sneaking into his father's study to read every political theorem known to Lordran, all of it was worth it.

He made his own place where it was decided he wouldn't have one at all and he'd be damned if someone dare say he didn't deserve everything that came with it and more.

The subjects of the old regime could say he was a sullen, brooding goddess all they liked. A forgotten child who had no definite destiny. Who were they subordinate to?

 _Gwyndolin_.

Not Gwynevere.

Not Gwyneth.

Not Gwyn.

Not even Seath or Velka.

 _Him._

And _only_ him.

He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and did so with passion and pride. He became a god of his own volition. Did he desire worship? No. He desired validation, even though it never came from where he wanted it to come from. The Knightess was wonderful and even Yorshka gave him an ego boost when the job got too much to handle, but if it wasn't his father, it wasn't the same.

There was even a point in time where he was called a usurper. Coming out of the shadows after centuries and suddenly taking over when the opportunity presented itself.

The waiting game was over.

At the time, he would have sent a Crystal Soul Spear into anyone who thought they could take the throne from the rightful heir.

He was _desperate._

He was many things: scared out of his mind, doubtful, hesitant, but his desperation to change his life was _right_ there. He _couldn't_ let someone else have his chance. Not after they'd been snatched from him so many times before.

He had never needed anything more badly in his life than the title of Lord of Anor Londo. He would gladly send every Chosen Undead into the Kiln and smile, knowing they had become ashes, Lords of Cinder, all for him. They believed in the Flame's benevolence. They believed in his cause. They believed in him - sometimes so much that they would join his Darkmoon Covenant, acting as agents of his movement, and persuading others to dedicate their life to keep sacrificing themselves to continue on a legacy that had absolutely no other use and nothing to do with them. They had pride in knowing they would carry on his father's legacy. They _wanted_ to carry it on.

This passion too, was fed to the Flame. After all, it had gotten harder and harder to keep it raging through the eons.

He wouldn't lie to himself and say he didn't get desperate when the Flame got hungrier. He sent out masses of Undead to collect Humanity from the Abyss itself to throw in hordes to it. He put hundreds of lives in phantom danger for something that was spiralling out of his control. They'd be reborn at a bonfire and do the same exact thing until they succeeded and their Lord Gwyndolin got what he wanted. It didn't matter. If they lost to will to go on and Hollowed, they were unfit for the mission from the beginning. They were expendable. There would be another Undead, unknowingly taking its place.

He _would_ get his respect, no matter what the cost.

He would even sacrifice himself, if there was no one left.

Xxxxxxxx

It was at this point that Gwyndolin realized that he had very much become a monster. Now that the seeds of doubt were planted by Lothric, they were easily thriving in a mind that experienced too much loss all at once.

He had no more blood family for they were long passed. His intuition told him so. Ornstein didn't come back either, so he didn't even have a knight by his side. Smough was a fine guardian despite his grotesque disposition, but Gwyndolin grew up closer to Ornstein, so he cared more about him.

He had a kingdom no more, the once divine residence now a playground for heretics and their offshoots.

He was no longer a Lord of Anor Londo. He was no longer even a Heir of Fire. His sun was forcefully eclipsed and pushed back into the dark by the very thing that was supposed to keep it in the forefront.

All he had was Yorshka and himself.

He was just Gwyndolin now. All the status he had to hold onto was his title as the Dark Sun. A title he had given to himself no more than a couple of moments ago. Out of bitterness, but undertoned with something akin to relief.

He was a fallen Lord, born into the shadows, to be a shadow, and to remain one.

He'd always be in his father's shadow and the shadow of his siblings.

The sorcerer found himself stripped of pride, dignity, and strangely, burden.

Looking up at the brothers, who had been content with simply staring at him and the many facial expressions he showed through his mental life timeline review, he saw two moons. Two shadows that were content with being in the dark. The light and the Flame wasn't their destiny and they knew that, they didn't fight what was meant to happen. Only fight what desired to change the inevitable outcome.

Being stripped of his life of before, perhaps this was the world's way of telling Gwyndolin that he had the chance to live and prosper in a life that he should have accepted from the start.

Perhaps, he needed to experience the psychological pains of the Flame to realize that it was truly unsustainable and uncontrollable. That he wasn't meant for the job of Lord.

He could see the brothers had been here for a while, they were quite comfortable in the ruins. They enjoyed being... unimportant. Unknown to the world. Disinterested with the world. They...were the dark that every man, including himself, had been raised to fear.

Was he really so different from them?


End file.
